I am one tired puppy. Tropical Storm Arlene dumped rain on us all weekend, so by the time I was able to mow the lawn yesterday and today, the grass was thicker than Rosie's thighs. Such episodes remind me of what I should have never become domesticated. I don't care much for cleaning the house or working in the yard.

It also reminds me of the only redeeming quality possessed by the Boyfriend Who Shall Not Be Named. He kept the lawn mowed and the house spotless. He couldn't stand clutter, and cutting grass in the hot sun gave him an added excuse to drink beer. Or whiskey. Or vodka. Or ... well, you get the picture. He may have been a drunk, but he wasn't completely worthless. Outside of not keeping a job. Or making a car payment. Or taking care of his kid. Or ... well, you get the picture.

Yet somewhere in the Lowlands, there's a guy passed out on his sofa after his 12th Stoli and water with extra lemons ... laying in a spotless house, which, in turn, is sitting on a manicured lawn.

Either that or he's living in a cardboard box under an interstate overpass. But I'm not bitter. ;-)